“I can’t eat no more,” declared Larry at last. “Twenty-one is plenty.”
He slipped off his chair, sighed deeply, and went down to the stable to saddle his burro.
Sailor tilted his chair against the wall and rolled a smoke.
“What’s yore idea of this Hartley, Whisperin’?” he asked.
“I dunno. Len’s got faith in him. He shore dug up evidence that Nan never left on that train. But where’d she go? I’ll betcha she ran away with that gambler. Wimmin,” Sailor exhaled deeply, “are queer critters. I never understood ’em.”
“That’s funny, too,” grunted Whispering, “bein’ as you never had anythin’ to do with ’em.”
“I had a squaw wife once, Whisperin’.”
“Injuns are different, Sailor.”
Whispering sat down beside the table, resting his chin on his hands.
“I dunno what we’re goin’ to do, Sailor. Me and yuh have been together a long time, but I dunno who in hell would ever hire us two old wrecks together. We ain’t much good, that’s shore. Yuh jist kinda git old all to once, without realisin’ it, and nobody wants yuh.”